


Immortal

by Zoni



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Drama, Future Fic, M/M, POV First Person, Present Tense, Romance, Shota, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:40:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoni/pseuds/Zoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian still remembers the master that he served more than one hundred and twenty years ago. His memories are brought into harsh light when he sees something unexpected in a coffee shop in New York City - Ciel Phantomhive</p>
            </blockquote>





	Immortal

           Regret.  
           There are not many emotions that demons cannot feel. We have the same range of feeling as humans, perhaps even greater. Even though we possess the capability, we can choose to avoid our emotions. We can take ourselves out of the path that would lead us to them. Humans do not have that much restraint. They are foolhardy creatures that live in the moment and delight in the pain when it comes to an end. That is their weakness alone.  
           Of the many emotions that exist, regret is something demons rarely experience. We avoid remorse through means of our own intelligence. We do not become attached. We do not become involved. Much like a human would never eat their pet, we know to keep our distance from those we might devour.  
           My life has stretched for centuries. In all that time, I can count the number of my regrets on the fingers of a single hand. Two of these have occurred within the past century and a half and all somehow due to a single and utterly insignificant human boy. The decision I most regret is the choice I made to leave the service of Ciel Phantomhive more than one hundred years ago.

           Only days before his fifteenth birthday, my former young master achieved his wish. The last of the people who had sullied his name, burned his home and defiled his body were discovered. I tore the head off the last offender with my own hands.  
           That single action concluded the agreement he and I held. Our contract had reached completion. After four and a half years of dedicated service, I was free to indulge myself in the meal I had anticipated since the night we met. His soul, so perfect and utterly tempting, was to be my reward for faithful service and unshakable devotion.  
           That very evening I prepared his last supper. Every consideration was taken. His favorite foods and his most beloved dessert were prepared par excellence. We did not discuss the coming hours as I washed his hair and dressed him for bed. As he lay sleeping, I knelt by his bed and watched the way the air around him seemed to stir with what might be his final breaths. Minutes and hours passed and brought with them a startling realization: I had no desire to be the end of him. I could not bring myself to devour his soul.  
           At some point during my service to my young master, I had failed to keep my distance from him. I had come to care for him on a level no demon should ever reach with regards to a soul they had claimed. I loved him. That realization was not entirely new to me. To the contrary, I had known of my affections for some time. Likewise, I had also known that I would one day take his soul. Those were the terms of our agreement and the terms were final. Unfailing loyalty in every aspect of our relationship until the very end.  
           Never before had I gone against the terms of a contract. Simply walking away is not even a possibility that one might consider. Those words are incredibly deceptive, making it sound as though such a thing is simple. In truth, I did not even know if that course of action were even possible. The only decision to make was one that had already been made. My young master's existence meant more to me than my own selfish ideals, standards which had gone unshattered for centuries. I was prepared to sacrifice some small dignity for his sake.  
           My decision to depart was made with surprising ease. So too were the obvious eventualities that accompanied such a choice; if I could not fulfil my half of our contract, I could not remain by his side. Since the moment of our introduction, his life had been stained red with blood and torment. Were I to remain in his service, he and his own would only be further corrupted by my presence. Were I to go, he might have some chance at whatever normalcy anyone of his status might achieve. My tutelage and his own cognizance assured that much.  
           I would leave but he would not be without protection. Arrangements were made to ensure his safekeeping. In my absence, his other servants would keep a close eye on him. A letter to Tanaka, drafted with the appearance of modest urgency, contained my excuses. Even as the paper was folded into its envelope, that terrible regret had already begun to build. This was not something done out of selfishness. For perhaps the first time since my inception, my priorities were entirely focused on someone else. My young master would be safe. He would be taken care of. Most importantly of all, he would be alive.  
           With my measures in place, I returned to his bedside. More than an hour was spent simply watching him as he slept. The nightmares of years before were no longer visible. I wanted to remember the way he looked when peace was upon him. Moments such as those were rare in his brief life.  
           When I had waited as long as I dared, I leaned close to him and smelled his hair. I pressed a kiss to his forehead and allowed myself to call him young master one last time. And then I left.  
           That very moment stands out sharply in retrospect. The end of an era, however brief. Nothing has ever been so difficult to accomplish as simply stepping over the threshold of the manor house and not looking back. I was no longer in the service of family Phantomhive.  
           The contract that he and I made was impossible to destroy. Even my blatant violation of the terms upon which we had agreed could not void the bond. Our contract was eternal and so too were the signs of it. He most likely carried the seal in his eye until the day he died. The black lines of the mark are still etched on the back of my left hand.  
           Though I could not erase the physical demarcations of our agreement, I was able to sever one small part. With great effort, I terminated the connection it had once afforded us. No longer would I feel the pull at the back of my mind when he thought of me. His voice would no longer echo in my ears when he called for me regardless of distance. There were no illusions about the fact that he would. When he woke and found that I was not at his bedside, he would summon me. I did not want to hear his voice as he wondered why I did not appear at his side the instant he called out for me. This one small kindness for myself was what I thought best. I tried to forget the impetuous young earl I had once served.  
           Only within the year, since entering a contract with my new master, have I ventured to see what happened to Ciel Phantomhive. So much time had passed even for one such as myself that I did not expect the pain that came with learning that he had passed away only two years following my departure. No matter how skilled his servants, they could not save him from the assassin that took his life. Pneumonia. Humans are so fragile.

           Some fourteen months ago, desperation summoned me to a man dying in a New York City alleyway. Mugged by someone with a large gun and little common sense, John Anderson was breathing his last atop a pile of rotting food and refuse. We struck a bargain. For the time being, he is the one I call master.  
           At the outset of our agreement, I found his contradicting ideals of class and filth intriguing. Little time passed before his true nature became apparent. He is a disgusting creature who does not properly merit being called a man. Countless souls have passed before me and I have taken their souls in exchange for whatever happiness they wish of me. Few of them have been as foolish as this. Mr. Anderson has only one idea of happiness: money. His dying desire was not to live, to see revenge or even for the safety of a loved one. He was concerned entirely with his wallet. No wish or desire one could ask of a demon such as myself could be half as foolish. Wealth is fleeting and worthless like so much of Mr. Anderson's life.  
           More than once, I have wondered if my new master comprehends the bargain we made. He has no regards for terms or eventualities. Most humans insist on giving me a name or a title, something to degrade my existence and make them feel as though they are in control of their own brief spark. Mr. Anderson has not done so. He instructed me to use whatever name I desired. Not out of kindness, but out of a lack of care or concern. I am a triviality not even worthy of consideration in his eyes. And yet, by that bidding, I am still Sebastian Michaelis.  
           My master's love of wealth and the lack of awareness for the demon he keeps are only the start of his carelessness. He works by day as a trader on Wall Street. His nights are filled with the entertainment of women and narcotics. Wealth may be his ultimate goal but he frequently spends beyond his means. I am uncertain whether that is out of sheer stupidity or some insane, ingenious attempt to avoid the end of our agreement. Occasionally, he humiliates me for his own enjoyment as well. I detest him.  
           This ill-suited arrangement has a single advantage. Because I am treated as little more than a dog, my presence is required only once per day and rarely beyond that. When he desires to contact me, he insists on using a cellular phone maintained for that particular purpose. He has only used it once. At all other times, I am expected to stay out of sight and out of mind. He prefers to imagine that his life is not tied to something he cannot comprehend. To this end, he keeps an apartment for my use. This suits my tastes as I do not have to interact with him any more than is absolutely necessary.  
           Mr. Anderson has created a situation he considers ideal. He benefits without concern for anyone else and does not think twice about the consequences. For my part, I believe that his contract may soon come to an end. After all, it was he who failed to specify exactly what was considered the extreme wealth that would signal the end of our agreement.

           In the past hundred years, the world has made remarkable progress. Even so, some things will always remain the same. Carriages have been replaced by cars and the newspaper boys by sidewalk vendors, but cities will always feel like cities. The streets of New York City are just as busy this morning as the streets of London a century past. People still go about their business without a care or concern for anyone around them.  
           The sounds of construction and traffic highlight my morning journey into an unfamiliar section of the city. As part of my routine duties to Mr. Anderson, I am to bring him coffee and pastries from his favorite bakery each morning. He does not believe that I am capable of creating them myself and will not accept a substitution regardless of reason. His favored brand is cheap, overused and unfortunately difficult to come by. Today, the bakery he prefers is closed. Even I cannot cause them to open and there are no other branches of that particular shop. The only option left to me by my master's divisive orders is to risk his fury by  placing his order with another bakery.  
           Glass double doors lead the way to the queue. There are sixteen patrons in front of me. Apparently my torture will be prolonged this morning; I dislike coffee shops. The smell of artificial vanilla and mass-produced cinnamon is unappetizing at best. The culinary arts have long been lost on the American public. Thoughtfulness and taste in shop products is nonexistent in this shop and the products it sells. The store is every bit as shallow as the customers that buy from them.  
           All of these little coffee houses are the same. Boring, tedious, artsy. Despite the line, the quiet of the shop is pleasant. At least I can pass the time observing the other customers. I have not lost my fascination with humans. Watching them gives me some small enjoyment, if only from the variety. They provide some distraction from less pleasant thoughts of what manner of punishment I will receive for this brand substitution of my master's breakfast. When his exact standards are not met, Mr. Anderson can be particularly crude and cruel even by my standards. My time with him is slowly counting down, a thought which brings me some satisfaction despite the circumstances.  
           Something isn't quite right. My eyes glance over the punk rocker in front of me and the elderly couple seated in the corner. Ordinary people conducting ordinary business. To say that I envy them would be incorrect, but there are times when I miss the routine I once had. Perhaps that's the source of my uneasiness.  
           And then I hear it. Neither the rocker nor the couple had drawn my attention, but somewhere at the front of the line there's a customer whose voice sounds very familiar. Familiar, but impossible to place.  
           Impossible and yet not. The direct words and rounded accent capture my attention. I know that accent, though it isn't as thick as it should be. The commanding tone of voice that leaves no room for argument is another matter. It's not just familiar, it's the same. Impossibly so. The notes of each word are identical to a voice I have not heard for more than a century. History repeats itself. People are similar but nothing can ever be _this_ similar. There are no coincidences in this world of individuals.  
           The customer receives their order and the line trudges forward. Surprise strikes the instant the source of the voice breaks from the line. There, walking towards the doors of the shop, is Ciel Phantomhive. Small, regal and proud, he looks just the same as he did on the day I left. Right down to the black silk eye patch covering his right eye.

\---  
**Author's Note:** _For those of you who have read Immortal before, I'm glad to have you back and reading once again! For those who are new to the story, you should know that Immortal was published previously (about five years ago) and was... shall we say, not spectacularly edited. Plenty of people enjoyed it but I was bothered by the amount of work it needed so I took it down. I've decided to repost it, but I am rewriting the chapters as I go. Some will be almost identical to the original, but others will be vastly different. I hope you will appreciate the time and effort I have put into bringing Immortal back to you better than it was before. Many thanks to my delightful beta reader, Project Break. She may not be in the fandom but she is still a great editor._


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